


A Love I Seemed To Lose With My Lost Saints

by Malivrag



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Father/Son Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 14:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malivrag/pseuds/Malivrag
Summary: The depth, breadth, and height of everything that makes up Malcolm and Martin; or how two monsters love one another.





	A Love I Seemed To Lose With My Lost Saints

**Author's Note:**

> Good lord, pay attention to the pairing and the tags.
> 
> Title is from How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

1990.

Babies had the most delicious, almost powdery scent; at least, his baby did.

Dr. Martin Whitly sat in his plush lounging chair in his study, with his newborn son in his lap. The room was dimly lit, too dim for any eyes but his own and the bright, unfocused, eyes of his son. Martin leaned back a little in his chair, making the frame creak. Surrounding them were shelves of books, well-thumbed with bent and broken spines, and on the wall were stern-faced paintings of their ancestors, three prior generations of Whitlys staring in mute horror at the scene before them: their descendants, father and son, the last branches of this poisoned tree, silently regarding one another.

Martin lifted the infant in his hands, marveling at him. By this time, he had already taken several lives; this was the first he had ever given. Jessica was upstairs, somewhere. Her part had been played, she could now retire to her booze and pills that a doctor husband could provide her. 

Martin turned Malcolm a little, this way and that, one hand cupping the delicate, unfused skull and weak neck. He had studied childbirth and pediatric care in medical school, of course, but that was not his preferred course of study. No, he had wanted to crack open the chests of his patients, to hold their hearts in his hands and squeeze. He had never been so taken with any infant. Only this one -- the one that belonged to him. Just like him, with pale eyes that promised to stay blue, nothing like Jessica's darker hazel eyes. He lifted Malcolm up to his face and breathed him in, inhaling his fresh scent. How delightful! What a revelation! Martin already wanted another.

Malcolm kicked his little legs, so weak he could do nothing to save himself, and anyway having no instinct for his own self-preservation beyond crying for his parents. Chuckling, Martin kissed the little feet, the impossibly tiny toes, each one blessed with a perfect miniature toenail. Malcolm stilled; he seemed to relax. His father purred something meaningless, and the baby's hands, already in constant movement, batted at the air.

"You and I," Martin promised him, "were made for each other."

2019.

Malcolm turned to leave him, forsaking him yet again -- just as he had forsaken the name Martin had given him, and his birthright, everything Martin had ever dreamed of teaching him.

"No!" pleaded Martin, on his feet in a moment. "No! Don't go. Don't go." He took deep draws of air, fixing his son's eyes with his own, beseeching him to listen, to stay. "I can help you. I have so much to teach you."

"You, help me?" Perhaps Malcolm was aiming for bitterness; his voice quavered, betrayed him, as real vulnerability poured forth. His hands twisted. "You have taken everything from me -- my sleep, my past, my future. And now you want to help me?"

"I'm sorry," Martin told him, approaching him until that damned tether pulled tight, holding him back like a rabid dog. Malcolm was just inches out of reach. "What can I give you? Tell me what, and I'll give it."

Malcolm was trembling now. His eyes blinked rapidly. "I always wanted-- "and here he stopped himself, and his skin flushed and his brows knit together. "I always wanted to be held in your arms. Just once. To be held tight and safe. But I could never tell you or anyone else, not mom and not my therapists. Because even wanting that makes me even sicker than everyone thinks I already am."

Martin's heart was pounding wildly. He said, "Come closer. Put your arms around me. Please, Malcolm."

He glanced at the door; Martin saw it. Watching for a guard, any sort of witness to this... this madness that had seemingly overtaken them both. When Martin saw that no one was watching, his heart soared, for he knew Malcolm was already his and that he would give in to him. He was merely checking to see if there would be witnesses. Malcolm took a step closer to him, then another. Hesitant little steps. And yet he was now so close that Martin imagined he could smell him once more.

The last few inches was a gulf wider than the world, deeper than the soul, darker than murder. Malcolm looked at the door once last time, then leaned his body against Martin's own. They pressed together, Malcolm's chin finding that notch in Martin's shoulder where a head might rest. Their chests pressed together and Malcolm's hands came up, touched his father's elbows; Martin could feel his body heat, could brush his nose into Malcolm's hair. A soft little yearning sound, like quite a grunt but not a defeated whimper, escaped Malcolm. He laid his head on Martin's shoulder and seemed to lose himself. Martin's hands were trapped between them, cuffed tightly together, so he could not hold Malcolm as he had wished, but he used his chin to nudge his son as close as humanly possible.

Daring everything, Martin dropped a kiss onto Malcolm's temple. It was the first kiss of any kind he'd given anyone since the night of his arrest -- he had not given that many before. He felt Malcolm draw away, and steeled himself for the loss of contact, the inevitable rejection. Well, children outgrew their fathers eventually. All of them did, not just his. Their foreheads brushed, and Martin felt a little dizzy with relief, realizing Malcolm did not want to break apart just yet. He could luxuriate in this moment a bit longer. The warm exhalations from Malcolm's mouth touched his neck and chest. 

Martin pressed another kiss, pure tenderness, to the zygomatic arch next to Malcolm's eye. He felt Malcolm clench a little on his arms, and then, as if in a dream, a thousand years passed in a matter of moments, of heartbeats, and Malcolm's lips touched his. 

Martin's eyes shot open as he forced himself not to jerk away in shock. His son's eyes were still closed, delicate eyelids lowered to brush lashes against his cheeks. Malcolm's hands made their way from Martin's arms to his shoulders, holding him close and holding him still. His lips worked against Martin's; after the shock of the moment passed, Martin allowed himself to reciprocate, to find his way around that mouth. Malcolm's lips parted, and all pretext of a familial kiss (if there could be any) evaporated. His hands were on Martin's face, and his mouth hungrily worked Martin's open, sucking at his tongue and nipping at his lips greedily.

Those hands shoved him back, and Martin reeled in surprise. Malcolm had wrenched himself away from him, and was slumped against the door to his cell. Every kind of horror of the self was written large on his face. "Malcolm," Martin managed to say. "Malcolm, don't--"

"No, no, I need to--" Malcolm gulped. "I need to go." He rapped desperately on the door and the guard appeared, approaching them to let him out.

"Malcolm, I need you!" Martin cried, feeling him slipping away. "That meant something! You know it did. We mean something. Malcolm, don't go! Stay here!"

Malcolm wiped frantically at his mouth, unable to look at him, unable to say anything more. The door opened.

Martin flung himself against his tether. "I love you! Come back to me! I will always love you!"

FIN.


End file.
